


Flamenco

by autiotalo (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/autiotalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Music must have a song to make it truly live. Even the most lonely of compositions has a lyric to begin it, a turn of phrase that fits the melody, even if it is never sung, even if it remains a refrain inside the head of the composer.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flamenco

_Mexico, 1999_

"Eww!" exclaims Christoph for the third time in five minutes as we all trudge up the steps of yet another pyramid. The former masters of this valley were the Aztecs, although this city, whose name I cannot pronounce without the aid of several shots of tequila, was here long before them. I doubt even Till could say who raised this city, but at present he's more interested in making Christoph go 'eww' again with rather graphic descriptions of how the Aztecs practised ritual cannibalism.

That reminds me: I've practised a form of cannibalism myself, although it was hardly ritualistic. Or perhaps it was, in that all sexual acts are basically the same notes to the same beat of the same song. It is only the subtlest of variations that changes the tempo, now. So – ritually, then – I have devoured and swallowed, but unlike the Aztecs, I gained no sustenance from it.

"Shut up, will you," whinges Olli. He clearly has no wish to hear more of Till's endless waffle about the severing of limbs from the torso, nor about an interesting recipe for thigh in tomato and chilli pepper sauce. Come to think of, neither do I: not so soon after lunch anyway.

Mercifully, Till decides to halt his excursus into New World cuisine and pauses to look at the view. Paul, Flake and Olli make good their escape. I hover for a moment, then realise that Christoph is staring at me, so I continue up the staircase. He falls into step almost directly behind me; I can see his shadow merging with mine, and the idea disturbs me more so than the fact that I just know that he's staring at my ass.

The others have reached the flat square space at the top of the pyramid. Flake glances down at us, his face blank; and I wonder if he knows about last night. I doubt he'd care; it takes a hell of a lot to ruffle him.

I thought the same was true of myself.

I was wrong; in the most spectacular way was I wrong.

My shadow wavers, splits from Christoph's as I break away from my path and head up the pyramid on the diagonal. Till passes me without a word, and reaches the top before me. When I get there, he's boring Paul with an account of Aztec human sacrifice. As a topic of conversation, it's only momentarily better than cannibalism. Paul's eyes are wide. I'm not sure if it's in horror at what he's hearing or if it's just a glazed look of information overload.

Finally Christoph joins us, just in time to hear about how the victim was brought to the top of these pyramids and held down by the priests prior to sacrifice.

"Sounds kinky," he comments, deliberately looking at me although his words are addressed elsewhere.

Till seems to give this concept serious thought. "Fear and desire aren't that far apart."

Tell me about it. I hope Christoph can't read anything from my expression; but when I stop examining the bricks beneath my feet and glance up, I realise that Till can. He takes off his shades and gives me one of his frowning looks, when he tucks his chin down and looks up from beneath lowered brows. His you-can't-fool-me look, occasionally modified to softer or more savage extremes, and now it's directed at me.

And because I am a coward, I turn my face to the sky and squint at the sun until it dazzles my vision, hurts my eyes even behind the shield of my sunglasses.

"You'll get sunstroke," Olli says helpfully. "Or go blind."

"Staring at the sun doesn't make you go blind; something else does," Christoph says rather less helpfully, and Flake sniggers.

"The sun can make you blind, of course it can." Paul is always so bloody sensible. "It burns out the retinas."

"Eww." Christoph gives me another searing look. It's not my retinas that will burn out at this rate. "Better use protection then, Rich," he adds.

Ouch. That hurt.

Having lost his audience, Till demands our attention again and turns the conversation back to human sacrifice. Sometimes I wonder about him. Hell, I wonder about him all the time, not just sometimes. Then I realise that he's not just saying all this crap in any hope of educating us – although Paul's listening more attentively now. He's saying it for my benefit.

And so I force myself to stop wallowing, and watch him in the hope that he won't do something too idiotic.

"So how did they kill these victims then," Christoph asks, settling his hat firmly on his head as the breeze picks up slightly.

Till gives him a glittering half-smile and goes towards him. "They all died the same way; but for one god, the victims were burned… but before they were completely dead, the priests dragged them out of the fire with hooks."

Christoph wrinkles his nose, but forgets to say 'eww'. He stares at Till, who hasn't yet finished his story.

"And so, half-alive, in an agony so great the heart was full, the victim was finally killed."

Christoph goes a little pale, whether at the mental image of the sacrifice or just because Till has got so close they're almost touching. He raises his chin and asks, "How?"

Till's smile is wolfish as he lifts a finger and prods Christoph's chest hard. "They ripped out the victim's heart."

For a second, there is a silence; then Paul says "Eww!" and the moment of tension passes. Till walks away from a visibly-shaken Christoph, and gives me an unreadable glance.

I shake my head infinitesimally. My hero.

***

Later, we sit together in the shade of a tree just off the Avenue of the Dead. I don't know where the others have gone: maybe to practise ritual sacrifice. I don't know and I don't care. I shuffle my feet in the light sandy soil just to break the silence between us, although there is no real silence: from the central square I can hear the chatter of tourists, and around us in the grass and trees, scores of insects shimmer with noise. They crackle the air, and suddenly I feel weary of such vibrancy in an atmosphere so stultifying.

It's hot out here, even in the shadows. On the plains, outside Mexico City, it's a dry heat that rises and scorches on the wind. Within the city, like last night, the heat of a million bodies brings with it humidity.

Damp heat. Arousal writ large across the crush of humanity. Is it any wonder I surrendered to it, drowned in it?

Till finishes his cigarette and absently lights the next one, crushing the butt of the first beneath his heel. This is his ninth smoke since we've been sitting here. A small heap of dead cigarettes marks time, and this nicotine graveyard interests an insect that wanders over the sand and inspects the tail-end of the Marlboros.

It's not a creature I've ever seen before, mottled brown and black with a shiny carapace and long waving feelers. Till watches the insect as it trundles around; then he picks up a twig and pokes the bug with it. Agitated, it rears back and grips the twig with its jaws.

"Careful. It'll have your hand off," I say mildly.

"I'll stamp on the bastard," he replies, his voice raspy from the cigarettes.

"You will not."

I hope he doesn't. It's not an attractive insect, but it certainly doesn't deserve to be squished out of existence. Till relinquishes the twig, and the bug carries it away triumphantly. Mohammed has moved the mountain, if only for a second, and I am glad.

He lapses back into stillness, letting the fresh cigarette smoulder away into a column of ash. After a while, he realises and flicks it to the sand, raises what's left to his lips, and takes a drag. He knows I'm looking at him, but he doesn't respond, instead staring into the wavering heat-haze that twists the view into distortion.

So I am allowed to look at him, for, despite the many expressions he keeps, he has only one face, and it is intensely private. He wears it now, his guard down: only for me. And so I look at him: at the way his hair falls, the tilt of his chin, the sweep of his eyelashes. His gaze seems as infinite as the horizons, and I wonder whether he looks into the past or the future.

Finally he acknowledges me, stubs out the cigarette and takes the packet for another; but he doesn't light it. He holds it, turns it between his fingers as he studies me with the same intensity he gave the landscape.

"So," he says, "are you going to tell me about it?"

"I…" My voice tails off into a croak of sound. "Uh, it's not really – there's not much to tell."

He glances at his watch. "You have time."

"Hardly a story for such – polite company," I try desperately, but he won't be swayed.

"It's not the company you keep, but the bed in which you sleep that I object to," he returns.

"You're such a poet."

He shakes his head and a lock of hair tumbles into his eyes. I stare at it, dark and glossy, and I ache to touch it, to brush it aside; but I don't.

"Everything is a song to you, Richard."

I wish it were true. And so I begin.

***

The hotel suite is as excessive as this city: loud, bright, overbearing. I thought hotels the world over had perfected the art of bland uniformity, so that in every city one had less of a sense of displacement. Although that's not true, is it – hotel rooms by their very existence scream of displacement; but this one more so than the rest. It's orange. And red. And there's blue mixed up in it, too; a blue like a jay's wing. The effect is not so much hideous as headache-inducing, and it matches the noise of the city outside. The sound of the street rises and falls like a wave, although it is nowhere near as peaceful as the ocean: sirens, the blatting of horns, shouts and crashes and the occasional blare of pop music.

None of this disturbs my companions. Till has gone off to do – whatever it is that he does when he gets all dark and moody. Paul, bless him, is long gone to his bed, with Olli trailing after him with intent to cause some sort of mischief. Flake has curled himself up on the sofa, his head half-covered by a cushion the shade of burnt umber, and he's snoring away contentedly, sleeping the sleep of the very drunk.

That leaves me and Christoph. I've had a few drinks, but I'm still sober; and being sober, I'm tired. My eyelids weigh heavy, and I'm about to follow Flake's example by falling asleep in the chair when Christoph suddenly sits forwards and says, "Let's fuck."

I move my head and look at him. He's joking, of course; and he's drunk, and –

He's not. He's serious; and while he's not as sober as I am, he's not exactly plastered either. And the fact that his expression is watchful, his eyes predatory, tells me that he means this.

"Why?"

He blinks, as if the reason was unimportant, a footnote to the need.

"I'm bored. I feel like it."

Now I'm fully awake. "If you're bored, then – then have a wank or something," I tell him, my voice low so I don't wake Flake.

"I don't want to go solo. I want you." His tone, by contrast, is strident.

I indicate our sleeping friend. "Shh… Chris, being bored is not a good enough reason to go to bed with someone."

His eyes narrow. "It's good enough for Till."

My body tenses. "That's not fair."

He tilts his head, his eyes glittering. "Isn't it?" He leans closer, as if ready to impart some great secret; then he changes his mind and stands up, stretching his arms above his head. His clothes shift over his body, a whisper of cotton and the heavier shirr of denim. His back arches, his chest thrusting out as he pulls in his belly; and I am stricken with a lonely shot of desire as I watch him.

He relaxes, shrugs his shoulders, and gives me a small smile. "Coming with me?"

I don't think the double entendre was intentional. I sit and stare at him, shake my head, but I still say, "In a minute."

He leaves the room, the door half-open for me to follow him. I wait a moment, glancing over at Flake. He's still fast asleep. Still I wait… for what? Divine intervention? Some kind of sign? Or am I merely justifying my reasons?

My emotions are like smoke: intangible, hard to grasp; and they cloud my mind with confusion. If I am honest with myself, there is but one man that I want, and he is not here. The difference between them is great: one patient, though he hides it well – too well; and the other – as just witnessed – impatient, a bull in a china shop.

Christoph has gored more than one victim in his time. He's one bull that should wear hay on his horns; but he's so… provocative, that to warn the public would be a shame. What makes him dangerous is what makes him desirable.

So: do I stay and wait for the one who holds time in his hands, or do I cut my losses and take the bull by the horns?

Enough with the fancy metaphors.

Flake's still asleep.

Time to play the matador.

***

The night is heavy with humidity, a great press of it hanging over the city. In the other room, the air-con was cranked up; in here it's switched off, and he's opened the windows onto the street. Noise unfettered assaults me as I adjust to the heat, feeling the sweat slide across my forehead, gather beneath my lower lip, bead at the base of my throat.

He wants to fuck in this heat? He's crazier than I thought. We'll both die of exhaustion. I can scarcely draw breath without breaking into fresh sweat. This is stupid; madness; I don't even know why I'm here, save for a vague notion that it might force me to abandon a dream and start living a reality, no matter how painful both may be.

Or do I hope that, somehow, this will force him to act, not me?

Christ. Switch off your brain, Richard, before you admit that you're using Christoph as much as he wants to use you; and before that thought gets too deep, cuts too sharp –

"Just a bit of fun," he tells me, mistaking my silence for nervousness. "No harm in it, is there? Provocation without aim… you know me, Rich -"

Yes, I do know him; and yes, it will be a pleasure to bed Christoph. He's gorgeous: his body has the elegance of a thoroughbred, his features are fine and sharp, and he could be – should be – all I ever wanted.

He stands before me, but I don't let him kiss my mouth. It's too soon for that; too soon for lust and already too late for love. Instead, he kisses my cheek, my jaw; his tongue licking its way down the side of my neck to taste the sweat at the hollow between my collarbones. It tickles; causes my belly to crawl, and I make some small noise of encouragement.

Christoph opens the buttons at the top of my shirt, his mouth following his fingers over my skin. Down he goes, and I touch his hair, so sleek and dark with the heat, the moisture. Sweat dews the nape of his neck, and so I bend my head over his and suck at it, capture his sweat so it lies on my tongue as damp and as bitter as tears.

We've twined ourselves about one another when he raises his head and looks into my eyes. Now he can kiss me: and we do, long and deep as if it's going out of fashion, a frantic feint and play of tongues, stabbing, stabbing…

The half-darkness makes the room seem warmer. My clothes are sticking to me; I have to be naked, feel Christoph against me, although we will only draw out yet more heat. Like blind men we stagger over to the bed and collapse across it, our hands octopus-like in the desire to touch and be touched, awareness of what we touch following seconds after we've moved onwards.

And still we kiss, afraid to let go, afraid the spell will break us apart now we've got this far. Clothes are shed, a sloughing-off of outward personality. My clothes – white linen and cotton – will crumple badly. Christoph wears black, and now I need the darkness he brings even when he's naked.

It's hot, so hot; the room spins with heat, and we are wet with it, sweat joining us, merging our bodies; we slip and slide, caresses impossible to linger over and every touch an effort against heavy languor.

I take a breath of drenched air and go down on him, the action lifting me clear of his body, putting space between us, room for our skin to breathe. As I slide his cock between my lips, the sharp, hot scent of him fills me. His hands close over my shoulders, in my hair: tight, tighter. His breath rises in a sob, breaks his voice for a moment; then he snarls and asserts the dominance he surrendered, pulling from me.

His cock smears my skin, a snaky trail cutting through the sweat, and he licks it from me, turning me and grasping my erection in hasty acknowledgement of desire. His hands are rough on me, and I like it; I like this drowning as he lays me flat on my face so that each breath is laboured, a gasp against the damp pillow.

Christoph curves over me, his chest hot against my back and his breath warm in my ear.

"When the image falls away, and when lyric fails – then there is only sound," he whispers; and he's right. Sound exquisite, sound agonised: and sound – music – is led by the beat…

Rhythm.

Hot. Driving. Hard. On and on and on and on, a glorious crescendo charge, a challenge that I meet head-on lest we collide; and I elude him, my mind slipping away into the void even as he pins down my body and counts time within me. Pleasure is born from such fervent violence, and I slam back to receive it, feeling him lose himself, the tempo steeper and sharper, more frantic, more jittery –

Bang.

***

Afterwards, when we are both sticky and gasping, the sweat cooling on our skin and the bed damp with the urgency of our lust, it strikes me that Christoph wasn't entirely right.

Lyric never fails.

Music must have a song to make it truly live. Even the most lonely of compositions has a lyric to begin it, a turn of phrase that fits the melody, even if it is never sung, even if it remains a refrain inside the head of the composer.

The beat can only ever count time.

Lyric is timeless.

And I am a fool to have confused them so.

***

My tale is told, and I await a response from my audience.

Till is very quiet, his head down as he examines what's left of his cigarette. While I was talking, he methodically shredded the thing to pieces. Now he stares at it as if wondering how it got that way.

"Fuck," he says distinctly. "That was my last one."

I relax very slightly, realising that my entire body is a coiled mass of tension.

He looks morosely into the empty packet and then flattens out the little box. "There are only two reasons in this life that explain why people do things," he says softly, and this time his voice is husky not because of the cigarettes, but because of something else. "We do things for love, or we do them for money. Which reason was yours?"

"Not for love nor money," I respond without any thought whatsoever, then my brain catches up with my mouth, and I think again. "Certainly not for money."

"Payment in kind," Till reminds me.

"No." Of that I'm certain.

"Then…"

"Not for love, either." Again, I'm sure of myself. I don't love Christoph.

There's another one of those silences-that-are-not-silences, filled with the rustling of insects and the whisper of the late afternoon breeze.

"Then why did you do it?" he asks, so gently that I nearly miss the question.

"I don't know."

And as I watch the heat shimmer the earth in front of me, I realise that love can wear many disguises, and sometimes it comes back to us in distortion; or it may be obscured by darkness and fear as much as by longing and the light. Jealousy, like anger, like hate, is but love with another name.

I think I understand Christoph's reason, now. Provocation without aim has no purpose; and there is purpose in everything, despite what he might claim. And knowing this, I can finally admit my reasoning, too. I turn my head and look at Till, and he looks back at me; and so I say, quite simply, without fanfare or bravado:

"I did it for love."


End file.
